Baker Street: 10 Months After Reichenbach
by VJ Spencer
Summary: Ten months after the Reichenbach Fall, and Sherlock has gone into hiding. His only connection to the life he once had - Molly Hooper. And today she is here to convince Sherlock that it is time to get the blue scarf and high-collared coat back off the peg; not just to save himself from ultimate boredom, but to save his trusty friend John from the darkness of depression.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was sat on a bench in the park when Molly approached him. He was difficult to pick out from a crowd now, if you didn't know what to look for. The high-collared coat and blue scarf had to go. They were too obvious now – the whole country knew about him. If he was to blend in with his surroundings, and convince the nation that the Great Sherlock Holmes really was dead, then going into hiding in plain sight was what he had to do. And, being a master of disguise, Sherlock was fairly difficult to spot.

This particular December afternoon, he was wrapped up well in a thick parker jacket, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the blinding (and surprising) winter sun, and a red scarf covering his neck and chin. He wore no hat. Instead, he allowed all passersby to see his new hair cut; not that any of them would care. All those lovely curls were now cut short. Molly wasn't sure she liked them that way.

She sat down beside him on the park bench where he was seated; just watching the world passing by as he stared with bored eyes at the paper before him. Molly noticed, from a quick look, that all of the quizzes had been solved on the puzzle page. In biro, too, rather than pencil. Sherlock didn't make mistakes, and Molly was certain that Sherlock could have taken one look at that piece of paper and then completed the whole thing in his mind. He must have been really bored to put in the extra effort and write it all down. Sherlock never wrote things down. Not even the important stuff. After watching him work for years, and admiring his every move every day, Molly had learned odd little things about him like that.

"Hello, Sherlock," She said timidly, shifting just a little bit closer to him along the bench. Sherlock made no move towards her. He made sure to keep his body language very defensive.

"Good afternoon, Molly Hooper," Sherlock answered, as was customary.

The two of them had had meetings similar to this very one over the course of the past nine months. In places where people were always about, but minded their own business, so there was minimal chance of being overheard. Sherlock had been sure to sit on the very same bench, reading the same weekly newspaper, every Thursday of the year, at exactly eleven o'clock in the morning. Habit was something ordinary people did; if he was to fit in, he would have to develop habits, such as this. It also came in handy when "bumping into" Molly, out and about. On-lookers would not think it was a pre-arranged meeting.

"I brought you something." Molly said, holding out a brown paper bag.

Sherlock took it from her and brought out the home-baking that Molly had gone to the trouble to make especially for him; "What's this?"

"It's cake. I thought you might like some," Then she added, with a self-satisfied smile; "You said you like cake."

"No, I said I like muffins," He answered, coldly, "This is not a muffin. A muffin is made from a thick batter and generally contains either fruit or nuts. This is a flour-based food with a lighter sponge; decorated with pink icing and an edible flower. It's obviously a cupcake. Honestly, Molly. I thought you knew better."

Molly's smile faded. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't know there was...classifications of...cake...I just...made some and...thought you might..." He met her gaze. She froze. "...like one."

Sherlock watched, almost with some kind of fascination in his eyes, as Molly dropped her gaze to the gravelled path beneath her feet and went silent. Reading human emotions had never been one of his strong suits. It had never been important. But John had helped him understand more about the basic human mind and emotions – even if it was something he had tried to forget.

His deduction: Molly felt embarrassed. She was trying to be kind, and Sherlock had done nothing but criticize her for it.

He sighed; "Thank you." He said stiffly, and realised he wouldn't have said anything of the sort before he met John. Manners were a waste of time. Time that could be spent doing other useful things such as thinking or experimenting – or, in this case, getting to the matter at hand.

"So how's he doing?" Sherlock said, forcing down the sickly-sweet taste of Molly's cupcake, and taking off his sunglasses.

Both of them knew who he was talking about, but Sherlock refused to say his name out loud.

"No improvement," Molly answered, "He's the same as he has been for weeks."

"So what have you come to tell me?"

"I just..." Molly seemed to be struggling for words. Either there was no real reason why Molly had requested another meeting, or whatever she wanted to talk about was difficult for her to bring up.

She huffed in frustration at herself; "Don't you think," She finally said, "that if you told John the truth –"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was about to say."

"It's obvious."

"But Sherl –"

"No, Molly." He glared at her; his dark eyes now slightly menacing, "If I thought John knowing would do the slightest good for anything then don't you think I would have told him by now? It's too much of a risk, Molly."

Molly watched as he stared out at the dewy grass of the park. It was a bleak day, and only an old man, walking his dog, could be seen quite a fair distance away. The clouds were grey above their heads, and a bitter breeze was getting ever so slightly stronger in the air. She knew by the far-off look in Sherlock's eyes, that he wasn't seeing any of it. The furrow in his brow was a clear sign that he was irritated, and in deep thought.

"Listen, Sherlock," Molly said; and Sherlock noticed a change in her voice. She was no longer timid, or embarrassed; she sounded confident. What she was about to say would come from the heart, "You can't live this life forever. At some point, someone will recognise you. You can't live the rest of your life in hiding, and trying to fit in with the rest of society. You need to clear your name."

"It can't be done, Molly –"

"Just shush! Alright? Just listen to what I have to say!" Surprisingly, Sherlock allowed her to carry on, "You need to clear your name – but the only way you can do that is by getting people on your side. I want to help you. You can't do this alone – and just me won't be much help either. If you tell John you're still alive, he can help too. And, trust me Sherlock, he will be thrilled to see you. We can start a campaign –"

"It can't be done, Molly!" He shouted, in that booming voice of his. There was anger in his eyes now – annoyance at how stupid Molly could be; how ignorant. But mostly annoyance at himself. Because, for once, he had stumbled across a case that he could not solve, "It can't be done! I've thought and I've thought for the past ten months, about possible ways of announcing to the world that I'm not dead – about convincing the entire British nation that I'm not a fraud. But they won't want to hear it! And consider this; even though Moriarty is dead, what about that web he weaved? Those connections of people all working for him – the ones who were ready to shoot John, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade – do you not remember that they were under strict orders to shoot if I didn't die? What do you think will happen when they find out Mr Sherlock Holmes fooled them? Do you think they will be happy? No. I sincerely think not. So if you think there's any way, any possible way, that I can tell John and get the entire nation back on my side – "Believing in Sherlock Holmes" – then tell me Molly Hooper. Because, honestly, I think it would be an utter waste of time for everyone involved."

Sherlock watched as his harsh words took effect. He watched as a single tear rolled down Molly's pale cheek and he noticed that the fierce hero who had been sat beside him just a moment before had crumbled.

"I was just trying to help," She finally whispered after a while, "I just...I wanted to..."

Her voice faltered and another tear was shed. Annoyed at herself for being so weak, she wiped it quickly away. Then, with some new-found courage, Molly found the strength to carry on.

"John misses you," She said, "and before you ask how I know; it's obvious. He hardly eats, and Mrs Hudson says that he doesn't go to bed anymore. He just sits in his armchair...thinking – and doesn't talk to anyone, if he can help it. His therapist is getting nowhere with him." Molly looked at Sherlock, but he refused to return her gaze. No emotion could be read off that pale face of his, "He's better than he was in the beginning; he even leaves the flat, occasionally. But he's not the same man he once was, Sherlock. I didn't know him well but...he's changed. Dramatically. What you've done to him; it's not good for him, in any way. He's severely depressed –"

"It's been ten months –"

"But he's still not over it, Sherlock," Molly said desperately, "That's what you need to understand. And I'm worried that, if he doesn't improve soon, that he'll be left in this troubled state for...well, maybe the rest of his life."

There was still no response from Sherlock. Molly continued to look at him, trying to read his expression, but Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground and still did not look at her.

"If you don't do it for you, Sherlock," She said, "At least do it for John."

Molly didn't wait for a reply after that. She knew there was a small chance of getting an answer out of him.

But as she walked away – shoulders hunched over because of the cold – Sherlock lifted his eyes and stared after her silhouette as it shrunk away into the distance.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," He whispered.

And, without waiting a second more, he stood up, walked out of the park, and hailed a passing cab.

"221B Baker Street," He said to the driver, after climbing in.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock paid the cab fair, then turned to face the old door that he had once called home.

It seemed so long ago now since he had stood on that particular piece of pavement. He used to unlock the door, and feel at home as soon as his foot crossed the threshold. And, even though it had been ten months, Sherlock still felt the same about the old place. This was still his home...he just hadn't lived there for a while. It would be the same as going on holiday for a long time, like everyone else in the country did on a yearly basis. Not that Sherlock saw the point in holidays...

Well. There was nothing else to do now but go and explain to John that he wasn't really dead. It couldn't be that hard.

Fishing his old, unused keys out of his coat pocket, Sherlock entered the building. It was quiet inside. There was deathly silence, and it was hard to tell whether anyone was in or not. Sherlock was unfazed by this, though. He jogged up the stairs and headed for his flat.

He was pleased to see that not much had been moved in his absence. His skull was still sat on the mantelpiece. The furniture hadn't been rearranged. All his books were exactly where he had left them – untouched and unread. And, best of all, his beloved violin was still in the corner; covered with dust, but yearning to be played.

All of his science equipment was missing, however. But Sherlock presumed it had just gone into storage. It could quickly be put back again.

After making a pot of tea and settling himself down into that familiar armchair, Sherlock brushed the dust off his beloved violin and began to play a tune he had composed himself, many moons ago. He was a little out of practice to begin with, but was soon playing smoothly and wonderfully, just like he used to do.

John, however, had just been to the supermarket. Mrs Hudson had offered to do it for him, but John had insisted. He couldn't sit around all day every day in the flat. There were too many memories there. He needed to get out and away, and had found himself just wandering the streets on many occasions, just for something to do. But, wherever he went, there was always something that reminded him of his best friend. There was always some graffiti that had looked like the code from _The Blind Banker_ case, or a woman with a pink phone case that looked exactly like the one from _A Study in Pink_. Or a man with a high collared-coat, or blue scarf...

John sighed. It had been tough getting through Sherlock's death. When he first came back from Afghanistan, it had been incredibly difficult for him to adjust to civilian life and forget the horrific images he had seen in battle. But Sherlock had made all of that go away. And then, just as he was finding something that made his days seem a little less long, and his nights a little easier to sleep through, Sherlock had jumped from the top of Bart's Hospital, and fell to his death.

It had been a while since John had written a blog entry. His blog had consisted of his and Sherlock's adventures. But, without Sherlock, nothing happened in John's life. Nothing he did was worth talking about now. There was nothing to tell.

John balanced the plastic shopping bags in one hand as he fumbled with his house keys in the other. Only when he put the key in the lock did he realise that the door was already open.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called, as he crossed over the threshold, "I thought you were visiting your friend this afternoon?"

Silence.

"Mrs Hudson?"

John closed the front door then stood for a moment and listened. All was quiet for a long moment. But then, just as John was convincing himself he mustn't have locked the door when he went out, there came the unmistakable sound of a violin.

He froze.

It couldn't be.

John felt his heartbeat rise in both anticipation and fear. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't.

John had watched Sherlock fall. He'd seen his blood on the concrete. He'd felt his wrist, and there had been no pulse. He's seen the death certificate...

With a shaking hand placed on the banister rail, John began to climb the stairs up to flat 221B. He wasn't entirely sure what else to do. His curiosity was getting the better of him. He had to see for himself who the mysterious violinist was. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't Sherlock, even though the majority of his mind was telling him it must be – even if there was no rational explanation for his resurrection...

John reached out a hand and, slowly, he pushed open the door.

And there, sat in his armchair with his violin pressed underneath his chin, was none other than the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

The music stopped. Sherlock stood up to greet him.

"Ah! John!" He said, "Kettle's just boiled; fancy a cup of tea?"

John wasn't sure what happened after that. He felt weak. His brain refused to accept what his senses were telling him. And, before he could stop himself, he dropped the shopping, and everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke on the sofa, sometime later, and winced because the back of his head hurt.

It didn't take him long to remember what had happened when he saw Sherlock Holmes sat across from him, sipping tea from a cup and saucer.

"I took the liberty of removing your shoes, John," He said, "You know what Mrs Hudson's like – she hates mud on the carpet. And I can only presume you took the scenic route on the way to the shop. On the way, rather than on the way back, because who wants to be seen in the park with four bags of shopping? Not many people, I believe."

John sat up sharply, ignoring the pain in his head, and simply sat there staring with wide eyes.

It wasn't possible.

"No!" He yelled, scrambling up and backing away as far as the wall would let him, "No! No! No! _You_ were –! I watched you jump! I saw with my own eyes!"

"John," Sherlock sighed, in a bored tone, "It's alright –"

"NO IT'S _NOT_ ALRIGHT!" John pressed his hand against his mouth. It was clear he was struggling to accept this. His senses had betrayed him at some point – they had to have done. Either now or ten months ago. There was no other explanation. Sherlock couldn't _be here_.

"_You_ were dead! You..." He gulped back a sob, "You had no pulse! I watched you hit the concrete –"

"No you didn't. You were knocked over by a man on a bike – tea?"

"Wait – how do you know about that?"

Sherlock poured tea from the teapot into a cup, "You don't take sugar, do you?"

"SHERLOCK!"

"Yes?"

"The man – on the bike – _how did you know about him?_"

"What's that phrase..." He stared off in deep thought whilst continuing to stir his tea, "A wizard never reveals the truth behind his greatest tricks."

"So you're not going to tell me how you just so happened to fall from the top of a multi-storey building and then managed to SHOW UP AT THE FLAT TEN MONTHS LATER?"

"Ah," He chuckled, "That would be telling."

John ran his hands over his face in desperation and annoyance; "Ten months," He finally said, "Ten bloody months, Sherlock, of me thinking you were dead. And then you show up here as if none of it ever happened. As if I can just forget what you put me and Mrs Hudson through –"

"Yes, where is she?"

"–and continue on like that day never happened. How can you even think, in the depth of that stupid big head of yours, that I would be okay with that? _You_ were dead. You had a grave –"

"Doesn't necessarily mean there was a body buried underneath it though, does it?" Sherlock remarked. His tone of voice was far different from John's; who was struggling to get each word out of his throat whilst trying to decide whether he felt happy, sad or angry about Sherlock's return. When his friend spoke, John heard that bored tone of his – the tone that showed Sherlock saw no problem with returning from the dead after nearly a year – and the doctor had an unusual, but understandable, urge to grab the man by the throat and return him to where he was supposed to be: St Woolos Cemetery. That would surely teach him that, this time, Sherlock's tricks had gone too far...

"Okay," John finally said after a deep calming breath. Sherlock noticed he was standing up perfectly straight now: shoulders back, arms by his sides, fists clenched to suppress his underlying anger. The soldier had returned, "What exactly can you tell me about..." He gulped, "...that day?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"ARE YOU _KIDDING_ ME?"

Sherlock took a long sip of his tea, "I do hope you do know John that anger issues can lead to serious health problems. Especially if said anger appears to be...unexplainable."

"UNEXPLAINABLE? Are you trying to piss me off today, Sherlock? 'Cause if you are it's working!"

Sherlock ignored him. He took another long sip of his tea and continued to gaze at the wall opposite him.

"Sherlock?" John said again, finding it incredibly difficult now to control his aggravation.

"Hmm. It seems she was wrong," Sherlock murmured, "she said you'd be thrilled to see me..."

"She? Who's 'she'?"

"Molly Hooper."

"M-Molly? _Molly_ knew?"

"Yes, of course, she knew all along," Sherlock said, frowning at John's lack of intellect, "I would have thought it would have been obvious. How else was I supposed to get a death certificate?"

"So...Molly..."

"Molly was waiting for me when they wheeled me into the morgue," Sherlock said impatiently.

"But she was here...she didn't tell –"

"She didn't tell you. Yes. I know. She wanted to. I told her not to. The end."

"Fine," He huffed, "that explains one thing. But it doesn't explain how you survived the impact – or how you had no pulse."

Sherlock put down his cup of tea and pressed his pale fingertips together.

"Harm in impact is caused by the human body's natural reaction to tense," He explained at lightning speed, "The tensing of muscles means that it's less of a shock-absorber. That's how bones are shattered and organs are crushed; leading to inevitable death. Common injuries found in people involved in car accidents."

"So? What's that got to do with anything? And what about the lack of pulse...?"

"Patience, John. I'm getting to that. I'm actually surprised you didn't pick up the clue."

"Clue?" John questioned, oblivious to what Sherlock was getting at.

"Yes. Clue," Sherlock repeated, on the verge of irritation himself, "Think, John. Think back to the case with the missing children; kidnapped from a boarding school in early June. We found the footprint – the footprint with five different types of traces on it: chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation and PGPR. It led us to the disused chocolate factory in Addlestone. But what was the vegetation, John? What kind of plant?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Rhododendron!" Sherlock leapt up, "Honestly, John! _Rhododendron!_"

Sherlock looked at him with an expectant expression. John just stared right back at him.

"You do know that I have absolutely no idea where you're going with this, don't you?"

"Oh, what's happened to you?" Sherlock said, with a frown, "You used to be good at this kind of thing! Well, better than the average human mind," He sighed, "Rhododendron is a plant that contains a certain toxin. What toxin, I hear you ask? (Don't give me that look, John; we both know you were going to say it.) A toxin that causes temporary paralyses and lowered heart rate – giving the physical attributes of death for a few hours without actually killing the consumer. It requires time to take effect, so, before you ask, no I didn't administer it to myself when up on the rooftop."

John pressed his fingertips against his temples as his mind tried to make sense of it all. It was far too complicated for his mind to register at that moment in time. It was too clever. And, of course, there was no way to tell whether or not Sherlock was really telling the truth. Just a few minutes ago, he'd said he wasn't going to reveal anything about how he survived the fall – was this just a plausible theory to divert John from the real solution?

Well, quite frankly, at that current moment John didn't really care. He was still trying to get to grasps with the fact that the man he had been grieving for the past ten months was stood in his living room, plucking the dusty strings of a violin. And that, just the other day, Molly Hooper had sat in the very same room and practically lied to his face – John could only presume that the two of them had met up on regular occasions and talked about him behind his back.

"So, John, are we ready to fight crimes once again?" Sherlock asked, coming up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

John paused for a second. Then he looked up at Sherlock and it was obvious there was an idea forming in his eyes...

And that was when John punched him in the face.

"Argh!" Sherlock gasped as he stood with a hand pressed against his soon-to-be-bruised cheekbone, "What was that for?"

"Just checking," He answered, quite satisfied, "I wanted to make sure that punching you in the face was still as fulfilling as it was before."

"And?"

John nodded, "I don't know how we'll explain all this to Mrs Hudson though," He said, with a laugh, "I'd be frightened of giving the poor dear a heart attack."

Sherlock laughed too, "It's a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid."

The two of them then sat down in their comfortable armchairs and Sherlock began to complain about how stupid the majority of the human race was, and how he hated his new haircut, and that he had had limited access to any kind of science lab for nearly a year - and it was slowly driving him insane.

"Oh, and before I forget," Sherlock said, after glancing at the kitchen, "All of my science equipment – I'm guessing it's been packed away in my room?"

John paused for a second and swallowed the bite of his digestive biscuit.

"Well, um...actually, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson decided to..."

"To what?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"We donated it all to a local school."

"What – all of it?"

John nodded.

And for the next hour, all that could be heard from flat 221B was the sound of a man as he ranted and raved about the loss of his beloved experiments, microscope and Bunsen burner.

But John didn't mind. He couldn't care less – found it quite amusing, actually.

Sherlock, even though he had supposedly returned from the dead, hadn't changed a bit in the past ten months. He still made long and detailed analyses of things and expected everyone to follow along at exactly the same pace. He was still a child. He still complained. He was still annoying.

And John wouldn't have had it any other way.


End file.
